ithered the last
chrysanthemums.

It was not Madame Miraz--she was absent--it was Helen who received me,
Helen, who had grown to be a great girl of fourteen, with an awkward
manner. She opened for me the door of her father's study, and brusquely
lifting her great black eyelashes, turned on me a timid and distressed
glance.

I found Miraz huddled in an easy-chair in the corner of the fireplace,
wrapped in a sort of bed-gown, with gray locks streaking his long hair;
and by the cold, clammy hand which he reached towards me, by the pallid
face which he turned upon me, I knew that he was lost. Horrible! I found
in my unhappy comrade that worn and ruined look which used to strike us
formerly among the poor Poles of the cremerie.

[Illustration]

"Ah, well, old man, things are not going well?"

"Deucedly bad, my boy," he answered, with a heart-breaking smile. "I am
going out stupidly with consumption, as they do in the fifth act, you
know, when the venerable doctor, with a head like Beranger, feels the
first walking gentleman's pulse, and lifts his eyes towards heaven,
saying, 'The death-struggle approaches!' Only the difference is that
with me it continues; it will not conclude, the death-struggle. Smoke
away; that doesn't disturb me," he added, seeing me put my cigar one
side, his cough sounding like a death-rattle.

I tried to find encouraging words. I talked with him, holding him by the
hand and patting him affectionately on the shoulder; but my voice had in
my own ears the empty hollowness of deceit, and Miraz, looking at me,
seemed to pity my efforts.

I was silent.

"Look," said he, pointing to his table; "see my work-bench. For six
months I have not been able to write."

It was true. Nothing could be more sad than that heap of papers covered
with dust, and in an old Roman plate there was a bundle of pens, crusted
with ink, and like those trophies of rusty foils which hang on the walls
of old fencers.

I made a new attempt to revive him. Die! at his age. Nonsense! He wasn't
taking care of himself. He must pass the winter in the South, drink a
good draught of sunlight. He could. He was easy in his money matters.

But he stopped me, putting his hand on my arm.

"Listen," he said, gravely, "we have seen each other seldom, but you are
my oldest, perhaps my best, friend. You have proved me pen in hand.
Well, I am going to tell you something in confidence, for you to keep to
yourself, unless it may serve on so